MY DEAR HENRY JAMES,--This is to say _First_, the voyage was a huge success. We all enjoyed it (bar my wife) to the ground: sixteen days at sea with a cargo of hay, matches, stallions, and monkeys, and in a ship with no style on, and plenty of sailors to talk to, and the endless pleasures of the sea--the romance of it, the sport of the scratch dinner and the smashing crockery, the pleasure--an endless pleasure--of balancing to the swell: well, it's over. _Second_, I had a fine time, rather a troubled one, at Newport and New York; saw much of and liked hugely the Fairchilds, St. Gaudens the sculptor, Gilder of the Century--just saw the dear Alexander--saw a lot of my old and admirable friend Will Low, whom I wish you knew and appreciated--was medallioned by St. Gaudens, and at last escaped to _Third_, Saranac Lake, where we now are, and which I believe we mean to like and pass the winter at. Our house--emphatically "Baker's"--is on a hill, and has a sight of a stream turning a corner in the valley--bless the face of running water!--and sees some hills too, and the paganly prosaic roofs of Saranac itself; the Lake it does not see, nor do I regret that; I like water (fresh water I mean) either running swiftly among stones, or else largely qualified with whisky. As I write, the sun (which has been long a stranger) shines in at my shoulder; from the next room, the bell of Lloyd's typewriter makes an agreeable music as it patters off (at a rate which astonishes this experienced novelist) the early chapters of a humorous romance; from still further off--the walls of Baker's are neither ancient nor massive--rumours of Valentine about the kitchen stove come to my ears; of my mother and Fanny I hear nothing, for the excellent reason that they have gone sparking off, one to Niagara, one to Indianapolis. People complain that I never give news in my letters. I have wiped out that reproach. But now, _Fourth_, I have seen the article; and it may be from natural partiality, I think it the best you have written. O--I remember the Gautier, which was an excellent performance; and the Balzac, which was good; and the Daudet, over which I licked my chops; but the R. L. S. is better yet. It is so humorous, and it hits my little frailties with so neat (and so friendly) a touch; and Alan is the occasion for so much happy talk, and the quarrel is so generously praised. I read it twice, though it was only some hours in my possession; and Low, who got it for me from the Century, sat up to finish it ere he returned it; and, sir, we were all delighted. Here is the paper out, nor will anything, not even friendship, not even gratitude for the article, induce me to begin a second sheet; so here, with the kindest remembrances and the warmest good wishes, I remain, yours affectionately, R. L. S. TO CHARLES BAXTER _[Saranac Lake], 18th November 1887._